A thin direction.
A crude selection,
divided under two eyes,
lost in one lie,
bonded in her illusion.
Let these waves out
as a fractured solution.
One caress
under curls of dust,
tides of smoke.
Her scent and dress,
whirling with
a nose to catch,
hands to attach.
Blended flesh,
twisting forms
inside our
driving storm.
We were wilted,
without rain,
without a signal
to keep us stained.
Further into
porcelain burial.
I break apart bread,
before a sunset revives
to ignite our skies,
to highlight us dead.
You wanted
a cremation.
I brought us further
into salience.
Modern Romanticism 